As I look at myself, I find a definition
The Nile’s place in Africa is vast, of course
I rejoice that this discovery is mine
Just as I say, “Oh, the war is over!” – for such is my nature
I encounter my name in the memory of a sword
The novice photographer finds me again
He snaps only my body; my soul is out of the frame
It was taken on a holiday, my bicycle was with me
It is being crushed beneath a truck
In one of the countries, a carnation suddenly falls
A hotel is set ablaze; a violin string snaps
I look at myself, a whistle scattering fear
Along the water lilies casting solitude upon the water
My city feels dirtier to me
As Africa washes itself in the Nile
I look at myself, in the essence of a gazelle
It is too much to even speak of it in the hunter’s room
My city feels more distant to me
As Africa meets the Nile
How could the Kızılırmak flow through there
When the map is torn in a corner of my land
For that well-known reason, soaps prove insufficient
If Africa has become dirty despite the Nile
English Translation by Mesut Şenol